


Dark Days of Summer

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [8]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Creepy Fluff, Dark Clint, Dark Phil, Dark fic, Darkling - Freeform, Emotional Manipulation, Kinda, Popsicles, Summer Nights, emotional exploitation of children, void
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 19:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10793004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: In a world where dead things don't always stay dead, Clint is born Darkling. Phil is made Void.





	Dark Days of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Implied emotional exploitation of children. Nobody gets hurt, but this _is_ meant to feel creepy.

People look at them and think they shouldn't work. That there's no way they can _be,_ no way they can _fit._ In a world of living, breathing men, monsters have been relegated to bedroom closets and the small spaces beneath the bed, and there is no room between science and logic for them to crawl out into the light. 

Perhaps that's why Clint likes the kids so much. They're still young enough, still innocent enough to see the world around them for what it really is, their imaginations still unfettered by the cold reality of accepted fact. Innocent, but still clever, still sharp enough to live in the grey outside the lines, to know the truth. 

See, Clint's Darkling. Born that way, no choice in it, but if you ask him he'll tell you he doesn't mind. Soul-snatcher, dream-eater, sin-whore; he feeds on the emotions of others, sucks all the pretty little feelings right out of them. Joy – bright and sunny like lemons, sorrow – deep and earthy like the best chocolate cake, anxiety as sharp as sour candies and fear as rich and savory as the best Italian meal. 

Kids? 

Kids taste incredible. 

They feel things with such honest intensity, with such purity that drinking from them is like the sweetest hit of adrenaline – dopamine and serotonin and endorphins all rolled up in one cute, unsullied little package. 

And he's clever about it, oh is he clever. You'd think it would be hard in this era of sex offenders and internet creeps, for a grown man to interact with children, especially the younger ones. But Clint – slick, sinful, sexy Clint – he's got it down to an art. The puppy-dog eyes, the aw-shucks duck and blush, the sunny smile and caring nature; they open doors like keys in locks and watching him work is the closest Phil comes these days to pride, to arousal. 

See, Phil's Void. Made that way, after dying a pretty gruesome death, but if you ask him he'll tell you he doesn't mind. He doesn't really mind anything anymore. He doesn't... feel things the way he should, doesn't have the soul it takes to feel. The ghost of a stirring in his chest when he looks at Clint is as close to caring as he can get, but something ties him to the young Darkling that he truly cannot understand, a tie he cannot seem to break. 

People look at them and think they shouldn't work. 

How could they not? 

Phil is the one thing in this world that Clint cannot possibly exploit, cannot possibly eat alive until there's nothing left but the ruined shell of a half-conscious lunatic, and Clint is the one thing in the world that can tolerate Phil's nature, his cold, unblinking stare, his blank mask and deep inner stillness, his absent need to react to the world around him. 

Hot nights in Brooklyn summer they sit on the front stoop of their rented brownstone as dusk falls, watching the pavement steam and waiting for the distant tinkle of music that heralds the approach of the ice cream truck. They don't speak, don't have to, just sit shoulder to shoulder and wait for the kids to appear, the little pack of neighborhood brats who spend their days kicking cans in the street, covering the sidewalks with colored chalks and dancing in the spray of the fire hydrants opened up by the city. Every night they come like clockwork, summoned by the chimes like the tune of the Pied Piper, making entirely too much noise and clamoring around the window of the truck in a teeming knot, and no one even takes notice of Clint among the thrum of small, eager bodies. 

He drinks himself satiated, and then he and Phil linger on the stoop until full-dark, eating popsicles that stain their mouths and fingers red.


End file.
